


Blue v. Red

by sajere1



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: ALL the queer/race headcanons, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Multi, relationships are important but are not the main plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-09 21:01:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1997658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sajere1/pseuds/sajere1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“They considered using their best soldiers, for a while. We definitely would’ve been out of the running then.” Agent Eta snorts weakly, tossing his yellow helmet up and down as he speaks. “But when Project Freelancer started, everyone was trying to make the best soldiers better. So what the Director figured was, instead of improving the elite, why not make the sub-ordinary extraordinary?”</p><p>[or: an au in which the red and blue teams are freelancers and the freelancers are the red and blue teams. it makes sense in context]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

MANY, MANY YEARS AGO

_According to file 3412, on the twelfth of January, month six since records began, it has been three hours, forty two minutes, and eighteen point twelve seconds since the Director has moved from his seat. Observation of his pulse and breathing rates indicate that he is awake and aware of his surroundings._

“I see. Is this the first time this has happened?”

_No. This is the third recorded instance of alert stagnancy since the creation of the Beta A.I._

“Now, F.I.L.S.S., you know the director has asked us to call her Texas.”

_It is not within my protocol to address programs by titles other than their operative listings._

“We will work through that in the future. Thank you for your time.”

_Will that be all, Counselor?_

“Yes, F.I.L.S.S. Initiate sleep sequence.”

_Executing._

A faint whirring noise filled the room as F.I.L.L.S.’ otherwise impeccable systems hummed to a halt; a screensaver that involved a lot of pink coral and fish filled the screen where, just a moment ago, statistics had been rolling through at a thousand words per minute. The Counselor’s eyes tracked an innocent yellow puffer fish across the screen. He absentmindedly rubbed at a speck of dust on the table, and the paleness of it seemed doubly illuminated against the dark brown of his skin.

The room was empty but for himself and the computer equipment. Few people came here in the first place, considering it was largely used as a storage space for back-up files, but the Counselor so rarely found peace that when the Director didn’t directly require his services, he was most often here, perusing the data banks for anything useful as their small team desperately worked to get Dr. Church’s strange project off the ground. At any rate, it was two o’clock in the morning, far too early for anyone reasonable to be loitering in the hallways of the rented facility.

‘Reasonable,’ of course, being the key word – especially considering the Director. After another long moment, the Counselor pursed his lips and huffed slightly out of his nose. His back creaked dangerously as he stood but he ignored it in favor of flicking the light switch and padding into the hallway. It only took him a moment to wander to the then-miniscule mess hall, where he punched a few numbers into the coffee machine; when liquid squirted out, he wearily clutched the two cups by their fragile handles and turned away.

His feet – clad in dark loafers; being barefoot made him feel vulnerable, even in the isolation of the night – were sharp against the metal of the ship’s interior, floor a sleek black alloy humans had found on Tralfamador when they were first colonizing planets. The steam from the cups had thinned out by the time he finally made it to the main control room, where he could make out the Director’s silhouette highlighted in the window that displayed the galaxy before them. His stride was even and measured, but his gaze remained fixed on the stars.

“Thank you, Counselor,” the director called over his shoulder without looking, voice slow and deliberate with that strange Southern lilt he faked when the men were in the room. “Just set it down here, if you would.”

The Counselor carefully set the _#1 Dad_ mug next to the twitchy hand, taking a sip of his own decaf mix as he rounded a corner to take a seat on the other side of the long glass table. His boss’ face was heavy with the weight of the bags beneath his eyes, and a beard was growing along his jawline – a product, the Counselor knew, of a schedule brimming with things that all required immediate attention. “I heard you moving around,” he said, voice monotone. “I hope you don’t mind the intrusion.”

“Not at all,” the Director grumbled gruffly, squinting at the mug for a second before cautiously taking hold of it and bringing it to his lips. Liquid was still staining his upper lip when he pulled away. “What are you doing awake so late? I thought you went to bed hours ago.”

“My bed is uncomfortable,” the Counselor reported, hands steady as he took a sip out of his mug. This was a lie. “And you?”

“Nightmares,” the Director replied immediately, voice so raw that the Counselor almost regretted lying about his own bad dreams. “Peace is hard to come by in these hard times. I much prefer my daydreams.”

The Counselor hesitated for a moment, stroking the handle of his cup thoughtlessly with his finger before cajoling, softly, “Are they about Alice?”

No reply was required; the Director’s entire form went tense, his coffee suddenly rippling at the tremble of his grip. His eyes – such a bright, enthusiastic green – went tight behind his rectangular glasses. His voice halfway to failing, he managed, “How did you - ?”

“You talk in your sleep,” the Counselor confessed, watching his coworker with a calm, consistent expression, “and I am rarely in bed during the night. I hear things between the walls. Cleo has internalized homophobia. Ripley was raised by an abusive mother.” He paused a moment to force his finger to stop stroking his cup; instead, his leg jiggled against the floor. “And you dream of someone named Alice.”

The Director stared for a moment but he held the gaze, eyes soft but stubborn. Eventually, Dr. Church ripped his gaze away, focusing instead on a wire sticking out of the wall. “Allison,” he murmured. The Counselor almost didn’t hear him. “Not Alice. Allison.”

“And she was your - ?”

“I am not required to share anything with you,” the Director interrupted coolly, and the Counselor backed off, nodding his assent. They sat in silence for a moment, each sipping his coffee to fill the uncomfortable space. Finally, the Director sighed and set his empty cup down, tiny spots of brown pooling at the bottom. “I believe,” he said finally, “that I have an idea for the A.I. fragments that we are planning to harvest.”

The Counselor nodded in recognition; he had heard all about the Director’s ideas on how Beta came about and had even contributed some theories of his own, until finally they had narrowed down the possibilities to a single conclusion – Alpha’s personality could be split into multiple A.I.s. It was what to do with these A.I.s that they were studying. “Our project, of course, is a war project,” the Director began, gliding seamlessly into his prepared speech. “Ultimately, our goal is to assist in battle, preferably with victory on our side. But we have been looking at this from _too_ military a standpoint – turning the A.I.s into weapons, attaching them to guns, expanding them into individual weapon programs. But if A.I.s have consciousness, then perhaps it would be best not to treat them as machinery, but as _beings_ – and if we are dealing with them as people, then perhaps it would be best to pair them with people.

“I propose that we find the most elite soldiers available. Each of them will have an A.I. installed into their armor – one A.I. per soldier. This A.I. will serve to enhance their ability in the field. After all, war is not always an effort of mass force; often, the results of a war can be seen in individuals.” His eyes gleamed maniacally. “We can train them to use the A.I.s in battle. This combination of human and robot would be capable of crushing any forces that came their way; we would have the best of the best on our hands.

“So, Counselor, what do you think?”

The Counselor opened his mouth. Then he closed it.

Perhaps, if multiverse theory was to be believed, there was a universe where he agreed to this plan.

There was no possible way of knowing what that universe would be like – cross-dimensional travel remained beyond the scope of human technology – but perhaps things would have been different then. Perhaps Project Freelancer would never have gotten off the ground. Perhaps Allison would still be alive. Perhaps the world would be a serious, war-oriented place.

There was just no way of knowing.

“The basis has merit,” he offered cautiously. One had to tread carefully when criticizing the Director, especially when addressing something he was enthusiastic about. “The idea of pairing the A.I.s with humans is going to revolutionize our theories. It was, I think, a stroke of genius on your part.”

The Director’s expression flickered like a light bulb going dim. “But?” he prompted, fingers intertwining on the table.

The Counselor only hesitated for a single moment longer before he leaned forward slightly, careful not to let his calm façade fall. “I think it would be more to our benefit,” he explained silkily, “if we did not apply the A.I.s to the extraordinary, but rather to the underachievers.”

Cataloging the confused expression on his coworker’s face for later examination, the Counselor delved into an explanation before there was time to turn his idea down. “Improving upon the elite is, of course, a viable option. This is why so many other projects have directed their attentions toward developing their best soldiers’ skills. However, humans are only physically capable of so much, and once they hit their tipping point there is no taking them any higher. They are already amongst the best; there is only so much more they can do.

“With those who lack skill, however, improvement is much more possible. Oftentimes – especially among some of the candidates I have reviewed only recently for the army – they lack only a single, vital quality from which stems all of their failures. We have theorized that the fragments that split from Alpha represent individual pieces of its personality, yes?” He paused to allow the Director time to nod, interest spreading over his face. “I propose that we analyze our soldiers to discover what trait they lack. Whatever that trait is, we pair the soldier with the A.I. that represents it. We do not improve upon the elite, it’s true, but we do add to the number of elite soldiers we have.” He cleared his throat, mouth suddenly dry. “It is a matter of priority.”

“Interesting,” the Director muttered before saying, louder, “F.I.L.S.S., have you been recording this information?”

 _Yes, sir,_ the small branch of F.I.L.S.S. that remained online at all times reported calmly. _Should I continue to do so?_

“Yes,” the Director replied immediately before he turned back to the man across from him, eyes hard and focused. “Now, this idea would require a much more permanent fusion of the A.I. and the human than what I was thinking. If they were stored in a compartment, then the personality of the A.I. couldn’t affect the human. Maybe we could fuse the armor with the human somehow?”

“It would be too dangerous, not to mention too impermanent,” the Counselor replied, hiding a quiet sigh of relief that his idea had gone over well. “Perhaps, if we could infuse it into the portion that maintains their vitals…”

The cheap alarm clock in the corner ticked on – three o’clock, then four, five, five thirty, six, and not once did they pause, fully immersed in the execution of their designs and theories, voices rising and falling to the cadence of the craft’s humming. It wasn’t until six thirty in the morning that the Counselor glanced at his watch and realized that his hands were trembling with sleep deprivation. He wiped them on his pants, as though he could rub the sleeplessness away. “We should go to bed,” he muttered, half-apologetic as he stood in his chair. He considered taking his coffee cup to the sink but inevitably delegated it as a secondary task; falling onto a bed was a main priority for the time being.

“Counselor,” the Director murmured, voice so serious that the Counselor stopped just as soon as he’d begun to move. When he glanced over, it was to a face flushed with boyish excitement. “I don’t think I’ve ever asked your name.”

The Counselor froze for a moment, stunned before he moved to face his superior, offering a small smile, tranquil even in the face of complete shock. “Cohen, sir,” he reported politely. “Francis Cohen.”

“Well, Cohen, good night,” Dr. Church nodded with a small smile, and Cohen took the opportunity to stride to his quarters, certain he would pass out the moment he hit any vaguely flat surface.

As Dr. Church stared out the window, space remained comfortingly constant, but on the far reaches of Earth, a new day began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now might be a great time to mention that I've never played a Halo game in my life.
> 
> On that note, this chapter is going to be the only serious chapter for a while. (It's also the only one with lots of big words for a while, because the Director and the Counselor are pretentious fucks.) The basis of the story is that, in canon, the freelancers' personalities and problems are taken seriously while the blue and red teams' are more often than not played for laughs. This fic reverses that portrayal completely. So: lots of nerdy freelancer idiots, lots of Srs Bsns between the reds and blues. I do this by making the reds and blues freelancers and making the freelancers reds and blues. I swear it'll make more sense later.
> 
> Much as I love the humor of RvB, I've never actually written satire myself, so please forgive me for all the bad jokes in the coming chapters. It doesn't get better. Sorry.
> 
> Also, the name Francis Cohen is one of the only names in this fic without any particular meaning. It just sounds like the Counselor's name, you know?


	2. Existentialism and You

**PRESENT DAY**

According to _The Galaxy: Everything You Need to Know in Twenty Easy Chapters_ by notable explorer Akane Ito, there are a few things you should know about the planet Blood Gulch.

First, it’s hot. Like, super fucking hot. Ito’s specific wording is along the lines of “if Death Valley and the surface of Betelgeuse had sex, Blood Gulch would be their orgasm.” What little native life the planet supports has been forced to live without water for centuries, as the planet’s single, unmoving sun evaporates it at a higher rate than they could ever ingest it. Instead, these beings – tall, slug-like creatures that move at about .45% of a sloth’s pace – hydrate themselves with ketchup, mustard, and various condiments. Very few humans are capable of the same feat. For this reason, colonization isn’t exactly a high priority topic.

Second, there’s one country. It’s called Blood Gulch. Inside this country are five states, labelled Blood Gulch Sectors I, II, III, IV, and V. (Lack of water has taken its toll on the natives’ intelligence.) Blood Gulch Sector I is considered uninhabitable by the Intergalactic Health Foundation, so natives can only be found in the other four Blood Gulch Sectors, because they may be stupid, but they have great survival instincts.

Third, inside Blood Gulch Sector I is two military outposts.

Inside her copy of the book, Private Constance Haywood highlights this line and writes ‘YOU ARE HERE’ with a large, expressive smiley face.

The description, she will admit, is pretty accurate, though perhaps underwhelming. Considering Sidewinder got two whole chapters to itself, she was expecting more than two pages of information. Oh well. It isn’t like she’s reading this for information; she’s just killing some time while Private Cameron argues with her brother through the speakers in their helmets.

Honestly, Constance doesn’t know how long the two of them have been out on patrol. Long enough that she’s gotten through five chapters of her totally-professional-book. Long enough for Cameron to call her brother a grand total of sixteen different names– seventeen and a half, depending on whether you count words from other languages. Long enough that sweat has superglued her hair to the side of her neck and the brown off her armor has started to blur into the brown of the dust far below where she’s sitting. 

So, basically, Too Fucking Long.

When Cameron finally shuts off her radio in frustration, Constance relaxes, shoulders sagging beneath the weight of her armor. She snaps the book shut and sets it carefully in a cranny just next to the edge of the roof, prepared to continue next patrol. Then, voice rough and strained, Cameron mutters, “Hey, Connie.”

Constance twists until she can see the woman standing above her, ignoring the unfortunate twinge in her spine as she blinks up into the face of her companion. Cameron is rapping her fingers on her leg, purple armor clicking slightly every time she taps, visor pointed forlornly at a rock on the ground beneath her. “…do you ever wonder why we’re here?”

There is a short pause. “Because Diaz put us on patrol,” Connie offers.

“Not literally!” Cameron hisses, and Connie can almost _feel_ her rolling her eyes, like some sort of disturbance in the force. “I mean, like, metaphorically. Were we created by some sort of omniscient being? Are we just a result of random chance, doomed to die without understanding our purpose? What’s the point, you know?”

“Evolution. The need to carry on the species.” Connie pauses as she continues through the list in her head. “Um, Jesus.”

Cameron sticks her tongue out at Connie, who offers a smile that’s all lips and no teeth. “I miss when you took orders and didn’t talk back,” Cameron grumbles, leaning shoulder-first on the cold stone archway that outlines the teleporter. Nobody on the red team is sure exactly where it goes. Connie knows; she’s asked. It’s one of the pieces of information she tried to trade to the Blues.

“Kinky,” Connie hums, marking her place in the book and leaning back on her elbows; her legs dangle dangerously above the ground, just high enough she might sprain something if she falls. If she wasn’t so confident in her armor, she might be a little afraid. “It’s just some late onset teenage rebellion. Or early onset midlife crisis. Take your pick.”

“Midlife crises don’t count until you’re fifty!”

“It’s just like Diaz always says: efficiency is next to cleanliness.” Connie pauses, squinting slightly at nothing. “…I think.”

“One day, I’m gonna put a knife in your back,” Cameron reports, crossing her arms.

Connie shrugs. “We’re on duty. It’d get deducted from your pay.”

Cameron pauses at that. Connie resists the urge to giggle, a grin spreading to her round cheeks beneath the cover of her helmet. “Plus,” She adds, pressing her advantage, “Diaz would probably cry.”

“Good point,” Cameron grunts after another moment of deliberation. “I don’t want to have to deal with him alone.”

“You won’t have to,” Sargent Diaz reports gently, putting a hand on her shoulder.

Cameron shrieks and nearly topples over, catching herself on the side of the teleporter just before she falls into it. “What the _hell_?” she demands, head whipping over her shoulder to stare at the man with armor only slightly darker than her own; only months of patience has given Connie the ability to tell them apart without hearing their voices. Sometimes, she swears the color scheme gets reversed. “When did you get there? _How_ did you get there?”

“You’re standing next to the teleporter,” Diaz says mildly, voice purposely unaccusing – a result, Connie suspects, of the argument they’d finished only a couple of minutes ago. Cameron is scary when she’s violent.

“I thought we didn’t know where that went to!” Connie protests, eyebrows furrowing. The Blues had offered her _four Oreos_ for that information! And not just regular Oreos – they were _triple stuff!_

“Exactly,” Diaz affirms, voice soothing.

“I fucking hate you both,” Cameron groans, shaking her head.

“Hate us later,” Diaz replies. He clears his throat and Connie sits up in sudden interest. That’s generally the signal that Diaz is about to go into Commanding Officer mode. Cameron seems to catch on too, because her back goes rigid from interest. “What’s happened, Diaz?” Cameron demands, voice eager despite herself.

“What makes you think something’s happened?” Diaz begins, slightly indignant.

Connie and Cameron exchange a glance. “Twin telepathy,” Cameron offers at the same time that Connie hums, “Intuition.” Diaz rolls his eyes.

“Fine,” he admits, exhaling harshly through his nose. “But it’s pretty big news. You may want to sit down for this.”

Connie pulls her legs up so she sits crisscrossed, raising her eyebrows at him even though she knows he won’t see it. Cameron flips him off. He sighs, shaking his head.  
“After I got off the radio with Cam, Vic contacted me. It took a while to work around Vic…being Vic, but I finally managed to get information out of him,” he says, weary. “We have orders.

“Command has seen fit to send us a new recruit.”

+x+

“What are they talking about?” Private Jewel demands, boredly tossing a clump of brown rock between his hands, occasionally flipping it in midair. Tex resists the urge to smack him upside the head with the sniper rifle. Barely.

“How the hell should I know?” she grits through her teeth, zooming in for a closer look at where the reds are conversing on top of their base. She wishes she could be on top of Blue Base right now. The dust on top of the cliff isn’t clogging her lungs, exactly, but it _is_ aggravating Jewel’s allergies, which means – surprise, surprise – she’s the one hearing about it. “We’re _a quarter mile away.”_

“But you have the sniper rifle!” Jewel protests, missing the ball and instead knocking it into her back. She counts to ten in her head. “Anyway, don’t you have, like, superhuman hearing?”

“The _sniper rifle_ ,” Tex begins when she’s counted to forty, “zooms in. It is for sight. The sniper rifle has never, will never, and does not currently affect any other sense, including hearing. And no. And you’re an idiot. And shut up.”

“Come on, there’s gotta be some sort of setting for hearing,” Jewel insists. “Just try harder.”

“ _You_ fucking try it, then!”

“Whoa, whoa!” Jewel puts his hands up in surrender. Tex has the sudden urge to strangle him with his own armor. “I’m a lock and infiltration specialist. There’s no lock on that gun.” He picks up another rock and begins to toss it, handling a little rougher than with the last one. “Sorry, Tex, it’s all up to you now. I’ve done all I can.”

Tex likes Jewel. Really, she does. The guy’s got a good heart, a great poker face, and an unhealthy wealth of loyalty, even when his team consists of women who bicker as much as Tex and Church do. And Tex knows that the demotion from one of Earth’s top soldiers to a soldier in Fucking Nowhere, Blood Gulch must have been brutal – she heard that he cried whenever they took the silver trim off his armor. And she gets that. She does.

That doesn’t stop him from being a pain in the ass.

Tex is preparing to punch him when her radio starts to go static. _“This is Lieutenant Church at Blood Gulch Outpost Alpha in search of her dumbass team,”_ a woman’s voice deadpans into both of their helmets. _“We have received orders from command. Dumbass team, do you copy?”_

“Loud and clear, dumbass leader,” Tex reports, adjusting her helmet slightly for better radio reception. “What do we got?”

“Hiya, Lina!” Jewel chirps.

_“Don’t call me that. Address me as your superior or don’t address me.”_

Jewel pulls a face that has Tex snorting. “I repeat, Church: What do we got?” she says into the radio, glancing at the reds through her sniper rifle once more to find that the third one has entered the rooftop.

_“Grammar, Private Tex,”_ Church berates. Tex rolls her eyes. _“Just come down to the base. I’ll explain when you get here.”_

“I don’t know if I trust that,” Jewel says professionally. “How do we know you’re really our Fearless Leader and this isn’t a trap?”

Tex grins privately behind her helmet. Through their visors, she can see Jewel wink at her. She knew she kept him around for a reason. “I agree with Corporal Jewel,” Tex hums, settling back against the rock, gaze completely diverted from her sniper rifle by now. “How do we know this isn’t somebody on the red team with a voice changer? I think we need proof.”

_“Do you guys really want to do this?”_ Church growls at them. _“Really?!”_

“Sounds like something the enemy would say,” Jewel notes with a grin.

_“Fuck you both,”_ Church swears. After a long moment she finally manages a disgruntled sigh and concedes. _“My name is Caroline Church, and I suck.”_

“And?” Tex prompts.

_“And I’m a boy.”_

“And?” Jewel says.

_“And I like to wear ribbons in my hair and I want to kiss all of the girls.”_

“Sorry we ever doubted you, Lieutenant,” Tex grins. “We’ll be headed down in a second. Private Tex out.”

“Corporal Jewel also out,” Jewel adds.

_“I’m gonna murder you both,”_ Church swears before the radio clicks off. Tex and Jewel snigger at each other for a moment before Tex uncrouches from where she’d been watching the reds, turning to help up Jewel.

When the rock he’s been playing with hits her in the stomach, she feels justified kicking him down the cliff.

Fuckin’ dick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a thin line between "references too subtle so nobody gets them" and "references too obvious so they alienate people," much like a tightrope. I like to think I careened off of that tightrope to my doom without ever knowing which part it is I failed at.
> 
> This chapter got delayed for a few reasons, largely based on how seriously unexperienced I am at writing satire (also, there are a lot more people reading this fic than I thought there would be, holy shit), but the major delay was in choosing the freelancers' names. I went from "make them as obvious as possible" to "everything must be a reference to the RT staff!" to "fuck it. Fuck. Naming them like they would canonically be named, I don't care anymore." I don't think it's difficult to tell who's who, but I'm the one writing it, not the one reading it, so if you are having difficulties, please tell me and I'll try to make it clearer!
> 
> Also, really fast (confining myself to three sections of notes per chapter), I would like to say that the first few chapters of the story are VERY similar to the first few episodes of RvB. Some things just don't change. When they start to diverge, though, they diverge fast and they diverge a lot, so be prepared.


	3. I Can Ride My Mustache With No Handlebars

Tex is expecting drills when they get back to base. She is prepared for a new recruit; she is absolutely ready to go for “vital information towards winning the war” involving orders like ‘win better.’ She is expecting an update from CT, an impromptu meeting about the chore chart, a surprise spar.

She is not expecting a huge-ass tank.

“Soldiers,” Church begins when they finally wander down, her voice triumphant, “today marks a turning point in the war on Blood Gulch. Today, we have gained a weapon that will ensure our victory, not just in one battle but in all of them.” Church pauses for effect, her turquoise armor silhouetted dramatically against the blue flag where they’ve pinned it to the wall. “Today is a new day for the Blue Team. Today, I would like you to meet… _F.I.L.S.S.”_

“Shotgun,” Jewel says.

“Shotgun!” Tex says half a second too late. “Dammit.”

“Actually,” the man inside the tank says, popping his head out, “she goes by Sheila.”

Immediately, two guns are pointed at his head. He cowers lightly in his seat; his armor is grey, but it’s much lighter than the tank, the contrast sharp enough that Tex curses herself mentally for not noticing him earlier. “Weapons on the ground,” she growls, flicking the safety off with her thumb. “Step out of the tank. Slowly.”

“Private Tex, put down the gun!” Church barks, ignoring where Jewel has a rocket launcher pointed at the intruder. “Tex, Jewel, meet our new recruit, Private McDonald.”

“Call me Dave,” McDonald chirps.

“Call him McDonald,” Church insists. Reluctantly, Tex turns the safety back on and reholsters her gun; at Church’s stiff glare, Jewel drops the rocket launcher, muttering petulantly to himself. “He came with the tank. He says he’s been trained to drive it.”

“Makes sense,” Jewel admits, nodding his welcome to the new recruit. McDonald’s entire body seems to sag at the friendly gesture, a slight huff of air escaping his mouth. “I mean, why would they send us a tank without anyone who could drive it?” Without waiting for a response, he leans on the hood of the vehicle, gaze focused on its driver. “You said it’s named Sheila? What’s that about?”

“Oh, I’ve been talking to her,” McDonald admits, fiddling with the straps that keep him lodged in the seat. “I think something about her protocol’s messed up, because they’re all supposed to be called F.I.L.S.S., but she said she was bored, and for some reason she wanted to know about Earth, so I’ve been teaching her state names. I’m, uh, not sure if she understands the difference between a state and a human, though.”

 _Hello, and thank you for purchasing the M808V Main Battle Tank. You may call me Sheila,_ the tank greets, voice pleasant and warm. _Washington and I had the most wonderful conversation! Who are you?_

“Great,” Jewel snorts, shoving off the tank hood so that he stands straight and rigid. “We get a new tank and a geography lesson in one day. It’s what I always wanted.”

Sheila whirrs lightly. _When you refer to yourself as ‘new tank,’ do you mean New York?_

“The point is,” Church insists, firmly salvaging what dignity remains in the ludicrous discussion, “that with a tank and a driver, we have the tools necessary to overtake the Red Base completely!”

“Woop-de-fucking-do,” Tex mutters.

Church plows on, enthralled in her own speech. “This is the biggest step our army has made so far!” she insists.

“I dunno, that spy on red team has been pretty useful,” Jewel pipes up.

“This is the greatest weapon that’s ever made its way into our hands!”

“Dude,” Tex says, gesturing to Jewel’s deposited weapon. “Rocket launcher.”

“Okay, well.” Church’s voice grows impatient, her hands locked in on her hips. “We have more team members now than ever before.”

“Captain Martin – “

“We don’t talk about Captain Martin here!” Church insists shrilly.

“Hey, what happened to him?” Jewel asks. “I mean, I know what _happened_ – but, like, after the mustache thing. Where did he go?”

“I think that he’s under surveillance in Wyoming,” Tex replies, shrugging disdainfully. Martin always gave her the creeps anyway. “Something about ‘discharge on account of severe psychological damage.’”

“What happened to Captain Martin?” McDonald asks, glancing between his new team members.

“You don’t want to know,” Tex and Jewel chorus.

“I don’t think you all understand the opportunity we’ve been presented with!” Church hisses; Tex imagines her face has gone bright red beneath her helmet, can see her eyes narrowing behind her visor. “Our spy, codename CT, has _very_ recently informed me that the red team will be gaining a new member soon. While they introduce him to his new surroundings, they will be vulnerable, and we have a new weapon they won’t be expecting.”

“But we have a new member to show around, too,” Tex protests.

Church plows on. “Strategically, there is no better time for a military attack than now,” she announces. “Which is why, effective immediately – “

“It’s almost lunch time!” York complains.

“ – effective in a few hours, we’re going to stage the first military attack in the last month.” At Tex’s look, she admits, “Okay, couple of weeks. Week and a half, at least.”

“Day,” Tex grunts, boredly examining the clock projected in the corner of her visor.

“Fucking – it’s a new goddamn military attack, alright?” Church growls, fists clenching. “And it’s the most important we’ve ever committed ourselves to. It is the dawning of a new era, team. An era painted with red. As in blood. The blood of the reds. But it’s really a blue era, because blue team is winning.”

“What’s our tactic?” McDonald pipes up from his seat in the tank, petting Sheila’s armrest almost subconsciously.

Church turns to look at him with a dangerous grin. “It’s simple,” she says. “I like to call it an ambush.”

+x+

“Where’ve you been?” Cameron asks when Connie wanders out of the caves, brown boots soft on the sand as she makes her way to where Cam leans against the base wall.

“Telling the Blues we’re getting a new recruit,” Connie shrugs, coming to a stop a few feet away, hand fiddling with the edge of her gun out of habit.

“Oh, alright,” Cameron nods. “Did you tell them about the car, too? You might be able to swing a whole other Oreo for that.”

“What car?”

“Diaz said we’re getting some sort of Jeep. M12 Force Application Vehicle.” Cameron straightens her back so she’s no longer leaning on the wall, taking a few steps forward so that she and Connie are eye level with one another. “It’s listed as Class Warthog in our database. Highly adaptable. Good banking technology.” She clears her throat. “We’re thinking of calling the Puma.”

Connie stares blankly. “…the what?”

“The Puma.” Cameron’s voice is borderline defensive. “I learned about it in elementary school. It’s, like, a giant cat.”

“But if it’s Warthog Class,” Connie begins.

Then she stops.

“Do you hear that?”

Cameron pauses and cranes her neck. “Huh – yeah, I do. What…?”

“It sounds like a trumpet.”

They stare at each other blankly for a moment of pure, unadulterated terror.

“Is that – “

“ – _polka music?!”_

With a mighty roar, a Jeep roars over the crest of a hill, skidding to a stop only inches from where they stand; Cameron shrieks and jumps away. It’s easily twice the size of any vehicle either of them has ever seen before, with small tusk-like protrusions just above the hood. Sitting in the front seat is a behemoth of a person, dressed entirely in white armor with a visor that is almost certainly not standard issue, considering the bright yellow helmet takes up half of it.

“Ah, the new recruit’s here!” Diaz calls, and they both turn to stare as he wanders up, beaming at their new arrival. “Wonderful to have you.” The driver grunts and turns off the polka music and Diaz turns to face his bewildered team, smile bright. “Girls, I’d like you to meet Private Joel Meta. Private Meta, welcome to the team.”

Connie and Cameron stare at each other. They stare at the Jeep. They stare at each other.

Connie says it first.

“Dibs!”

“God dammit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I planned to get this chapter out a while ago, but I had band camp this week, and towards the end of it I had a short breakdown, so it got severely delayed on account of me spending 8 hours a day marching and playing music. Also, I watched the entire of RWBY, which admittedly did not take long but was _fucking awesome_.
> 
> Lots of foreshadowing this chapter and a helluva lot of Chekov's guns. Also, it should be noted that while Tex is my favorite character in RvB and she is meant to parallel canonical Church, this absolutely is NOT going to become The Tex Show the way RvB was with Epsilon Church for a while. I love ensemble casts and group dynamics even more than I love Tex (which is a Whole Fucking Lot).
> 
> On that note, freelancers are entering the fray within three chapters for sure, maybe two if I swing it just right. Woohoo!


	4. Pumba or Puma?

“For the _last time_ , Cam,” Diaz sighs, rolling his eyes, “we’re not naming it the Puma.”

“This is bullshit!” Cameron insists, as up-in-his-face as she possibly can be with a four inch height difference. “It looks like a puma, so let’s call it a puma! What else would we call it?”

“Well, it’s a class Warthog – “

“It doesn’t look _anything_ like a Warthog! Would you name your car after the company that created it?”

“That’s what I’m trying to do, yes.” Diaz glances over at the jeep with eyes that plead for help, but Connie and Meta are in a deep conversation about what sounds like a comic book series. Connie winks at him for good measure and he resists the urge to throw his helmet at her. “Listen, you aren’t going to be the one driving it, so you don’t get to name it. Private Meta will have the final say.”

“The fuck do you mean I won’t be the one driving it? I’m a great driver!”

He snorts. “If I remember right, it took you seven tries to get your license.”

“Yeah, ‘cause that Monica chick was banging the tester and she hated my guts!” Her nose wrinkles as she glares at him. “And don’t get off so high and mighty. _You’re_ the one who started crying when I finally passed.”

“That was fake.”

“It was _not_!”

Diaz shakes his head, a small smile flickering onto his face. It’s been a long time since he’s gotten to argue with his little sister like this – the base doesn’t afford much privacy, and even if it did, Cam and Connie became best friends the moment that they stepped inside. It’s…not _nice,_ exactly. Just nostalgic. “Don’t patronize me,” she snaps, mistaking his expression as placating rather than fond. “The others agree with me. Right, guys?”

Private Meta growls threateningly.

“See? Three-fourths majority. That’d get a law passed if we were a government.” She ignores where Connie is flipping her off over her shoulder. “Come _on,_ Diaz, live a little.”

“ _Live a little?_ ” he repeats in disbelief. “What does that have to do with naming the car?”

“It’s simple. It’s – “ her voice clips off and she stiffens. Diaz blinks, but it’s only a moment before he notices what she already seems to have sensed – Constance, a hand pressed against the radio switch on her helmet, body twisted awkwardly as she stares over the hill. “Connie,” Cameron says, voice clipped.

“Radio silence,” she reports. “They’ve never done that before. I don’t – “

That’s about when the tank comes roaring over the hill.

“Scatter!” Diaz shouts, and they all dive out of the way; Meta sprints straight for the warthog and Connie instinctively dives for Cameron and pulls her out towards the wall, just in time to keep her from getting crushed by the tank’s tire treads. “ _This tactic doesn’t seem as thought out as you made it sound!_ ” shrieks the guy driving it as he desperately tries to work the tank away from the red base wall.

“Don’t be a wimp, McDonald!” a familiar voice shouts, and within moments a soldier in teal armor is barreling over the hill, straight at where Diaz is crouched behind a rock with a sniper rifle. “To victory, men!”

“This is fucking dumb,” Cameron swears she can hear another woman mutter, and suddenly there are four soldiers invading instead of two, all making a beeline for the flag.

“Stop them!” Diaz shouts, lining up a shot.

Lying on the ground with a hand still squeezing Cameron’s wrist armor, Connie sighs, shoving herself up onto her knees. “ _One day_ of peace,” she grumbles, pulling out a knife with the flick of her wrist.

Then she hears the rumble of the Warthog behind her.

“Connie!” Cameron shouts, and Connie rolls away as Meta – polka music blaring – drives directly towards the front of the tank. Helplessly, the driver covers his face, and without once slowing down Meta uses the front of the tank as a ramp, soaring straight over the gun that has somehow pointed itself backwards, sailing a few feet through the air, and landing directly on top of the shrieking soldier in full black armor.

“There’s _no way_ that was physically possible,” Cameron shouts, scowling.

“Holy shit, you just killed Tex!” the brown soldier on the other team shouts, staring at Meta in disbelief.

Five feet from him, Meta growls. The guy turns and sprints.

“Retreat!” the teal soldier calls in a voice just as confident as when she called for them to attack. “Come on, McDonald, hurry the fuck up!”

“This,” the man in the tank manages, gritting his teeth, “is ridiculous.”

Meta grunts. The man glances over at him. “I absolutely agree,” he says seriously. Meta blinks in surprise.

“No fraternizing with the enemy,” Connie orders Meta, swatting him on the arm.

“ _MCDONALD_!” teal lady shouts. Grumbling, McDonald backs his tank out of the red base’s yard, travelling slowly towards the other side of the map.

Meta growls and gestures to where they’re moving, one hand on his gun.

“I have no idea what you’re saying,” Diaz reports before turning to the girls. “Alright. So in light of what happened _last_ week when we tried to follow them, we aren’t going to touch the blue base for the rest of the day.”

“Boring,” Cameron complains. Connie elbows her in the side.

“Alright, so after that anticlimax,” Diaz says, “let’s all go get ice cream.”

“Dibs on the purple bowl,” Connie calls, and the bickering starts immediately and follows them into the base, floating over an indulgent Diaz’s head as he trails after them. Private Meta is left alone outside, staring at the door of the base.

He glances at the Warthog.

He glances at Blue Base.

Then – with a low growl – he jingles the car keys in his hand and marches towards where the jeep is stationed.

+x+

“We are gathered here today to remember the biggest bitch I’ve ever met,” Church says solemnly around a mouthful of burger.

“Church,” Jewel interrupts, shoving his elbow against her knee where he sits on the floor, leaning back on the seat cushion directly next to where she sits on the blue couch. McDonald stares forlornly at his burger, shaking his head and muttering something about ‘idiots.’

“Fine,” she sighs dramatically. “We’re here today to remember Tex, who liked to murder and maim a lot but who, y’know, wasn’t a completely horrible person or whatever. I mean, she told jokes. Sometimes.” She pauses. “This is very respectful and we’ll bury her body later. We’ll give eulogies then. For now, I’m fucking starved.”

“Fair enough,” Jewel shrugs, and MacDonald shakes his head a little harder.

“You guys are dicks,” a feminine voice reports, and Jewel drops his burger onto his lap.

Standing in the middle of the room where moments ago there had been nothing is a translucent figure clad entirely in black armor, arms crossed as she glares at them. “Tex,” Church squeaks out, eyes riveted on the helmeted glared

Tex grins, shark-like beneath her visor. “That’s right,” she hums. “Guess who’s back, bitches?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shortest chapter so far, but probably the one with some of the most important content in it. It also hasn't been edited as much as the other ones. Honestly, I just really wanted to update again, because with school starting back up I've barely been able to touch this story and it's just. It was really nice writing it again.
> 
> So freelancers are definitely going to be in the next chapter, but I'm very concerned about rushing into that plotline, because that's where most of the meat of the story comes in and I want to make absolutely certain that it's clear who's who. If anyone's still having trouble telling the characters apart - or even if you guys just want more of these nerds bullshitting stuff before we get into freelancer angst! - please, please feel free to let me know and I'll absolutely extend their plotline together some more.
> 
> And on that note: thank you _so much_ to people who have left comments. This is a story FAR out of my comfort zone, and even if it wasn't, knowing that you guys are enjoying is a lot of the reason I write. I don't respond to any without concrit or important information, because I know some people choose stories based on the comment count and adding to the number with my own comment feels like false advertisement to me, but it really brightens my day.


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